Of a Sick Sociopath's Behavior
by katierosefun
Summary: Sherlock's bad enough when he's healthy...who knows what can happen when he's sick? Of course, John's the only one who can help the ailing consulting detective. [Multi-chapter sick!fic]
1. Chapter 1

**Why, hello, everyone! First Sherlock sick!fic, boo-yah! Sorry if this sick!fic isn't nearly as enjoyable or as cute as other sick!fics...I'm still working on how to write fan fictions for the Sherlock fandom. XD **

**Anyways, even though there are just about hundreds and possibly thousands sick!fics of Sherlock and such, I just HAD to write one, because I wasn't feeling so great over last week and was in serious need to torture some characters...*sighs* Sick!fics are my guilty pleasure...they always have been. :P **

**This will be a multi-chapter sick!fic, so don't give up on me just yet when you read this first chapter! I'll be working on some more torture and Johnlock [friendship] fluff! (Before anyone can ask, I'm not really a Johnlock [romantic] shipper...I guess I'm sort of struggling between Sherlolly and Johnlock. :/ I don't think I really ship Sherlock with anyone, lol, but I do love Johnlock friendship. XD) **

**On that note, please enjoy! Reviews are awesome, and so are faves/follows! :) **

* * *

John wasn't very surprised that Sherlock was still asleep when he walked into the sitting room. It was a Saturday, for one, and the two had been up 'till five in the morning because of some stupid chase.

Sadly, Sherlock and John somehow weren't able to catch up to the culprit—and to John's surprise, Sherlock didn't argue against Lestrade when he said that he'd take over.

Yawning, John glanced at the clock. It was almost two o'clock in the afternoon, according to it. Stretching his arms, John sat down in his armchair and stared out the window. The sky was grey—as usual—and rain was beginning to fall lightly from the clouds.

"Sherlock's not awake yet?" John heard Mrs. Hudson ask from the doorway. He turned around and smiled sheepishly. "Not yet, no."

"You two came in late—I was surprised to hear the door opening early in the morning." Mrs. Hudson said, opening some curtains.

"Yeah," John mumbled, rubbing his eyes. "Greg came through, though."

"Good—you boys need the rest." Mrs. Hudson said with a smile. "I'll be downstairs, dear."

John nodded in thanks as the older woman walked out of the room. He stood up and headed into the kitchen. He was in need for some coffee, anyways.

•◊•

It was around three thirty when John was beginning to wonder if Sherlock was still sleeping, or if he was perhaps just shut up in his room, working on some experiment.

However, all of the equipment was laid out on the kitchen table so he couldn't possibly be experimenting on anything—then again, Sherlock could turn anything into an experiment.

John sighed and stood up. He might as well check on his friend—who knew what he was doing.

"Sherlock?" John opened the bedroom door. "You okay?"

He looked down at Sherlock's bed and, sure enough, found the detective fast asleep underneath the blankets. John frowned. He was _still_ sleeping?

John drummed his fingers against the wall and paused, unsure whether to wake him up or leave him there.

"Sherlock? Are you actually sleeping, or just faking it?" John asked at last. "You've been sleeping for a little over ten hours and that's not really us—"

John's voice was cut off when Sherlock sat up in bed abruptly, his eyes wide and confused. "It was the baker!" He yelled hoarsely, pointing at the wall.

John raised an eyebrow. "We had a case that involved a baker?" He asked.

Sherlock looked over to John with a frown. "Thought we did," he muttered audibly. "Why're we here?"

"We came here 'cause it was five in the morning and we were still chasing that bastard, remember? Drug dealer or something?" John said, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Oh. That. What a disappointment." Sherlock murmured dismissively, falling back into bed and staring up at the ceiling.

"You okay? I was wondering when you'd wake up." John said, staring at Sherlock's still form.

"Hm? Oh, yes, I'm fine." Sherlock replied, closing his eyes. "I need to think."

John's eyebrows furrowed together. "Doesn't look like you're trying to think—more like trying to go back to sleep. If you're really tired, I'll go back out, and there's no shame in admitting that you're—"

"Why would you say that? I think all the time, John, unlike you." Sherlock snapped back.

John paused, and with a shake of his head, leaned against the doorway. "Whenever you think, you have that _look_, remember? The…Mind Palace pose?" He said with a small eye roll.

"Pose? I have a pose? Thought never crossed my mind," Sherlock replied, his eyes still closed. "Now, John, please get out—I need to think some things through."

"Oh, no, wouldn't want to interfere with that." John quipped, straightening himself. "I'll be in the sitting room, then, if you need me."

"Mm…" Was Sherlock's only response.

With another sigh, John walked back into the sitting room and opened his laptop. He didn't quite know what to do for several minutes—he didn't think he's ever seen Sherlock sleep in so late before until now.

John tapped his fingers ever so lightly against the keyboard and sighed again.

'It's quiet when Sherlock sleeps in,' was his very first sentence of his blog post.

•◊•

John was still in a typing zone when he heard the loud thump coming from Sherlock's bedroom. He almost immediately stood up. He was fairly sure it was the very first noise he heard all day beside Mrs. Hudson cleaning from downstairs.

John walked out of the sitting room and opened Sherlock's door. He looked automatically to the bed only to have his eyes slide down.

"You okay?" John asked, walking around the bed to greet his friend on the floor.

"Fine. Fell out of bed," Sherlock grumbled. "If you couldn't tell already."

"No, I could tell. C'mon, up you go." John said, tugging at Sherlock's hand.

"I know how to stand up, John." Sherlock sighed, blinking his eyes wearily. "So if you would stop flocking around like a mother hen, that would be _so_ helpful."

"I'm not acting like a—wait, Sherlock, hold still." John muttered with a frown. "Something's off—Sherlock, you're _warm._"

Sherlock violently tugged his hand away. "For heaven's sake, John, I've been in bed for more than half the day—of course I'd be a bit warm."

"No, I mean that you're _really_ warm. Are you feeling okay?" John asked, searching Sherlock's face. Now that he could see him properly, John could detect the tiredness in his friend's eyes, as well as the darkened circles underneath them.

His curls were pressed closely to his forehead by sweat, not to mention that his face was much paler than usual except for his cheeks, which were flushed where the fever revealed itself.

"Sherlock, hold on, I'm going to grab a thermometer." John said. "Don't go anywhere."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Sherlock muttered dryly.

John headed into the bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet, and quickly grabbed the thermometer from inside. He ran it over with some water and looked up at the mirror. He wasn't quite sure what to make of Sherlock being sick—if anything, it wouldn't be too major, hopefully.

Sherlock never counted himself as a human, after all. Maybe that would extend to his reaction to being sick…?

John's heart sank. He wasn't sure if that was the case or not.

"Sherlock, open your mouth." John said, walking back into the bedroom.

"No."

John sighed. "Sherlock, not now, please."

"I'm not sick, if that's what you're wondering."

John pressed his lips tightly together and shook his head. "Sorry, Sherlock, but that's not going to work on me. Even the stupidest person in England can take one look at you and say that you aren't feeling well."

"Hm…I don't know, it might take a bit longer for Anderson." Sherlock said thoughtfully.

John sighed. "Open your mouth, please."

"This is ridiculous."

"I know, but if you aren't sick, then you shouldn't have a problem with sticking a thermometer in your mouth." John replied.

"And if I wasn't sick, I wouldn't be telling you to stick a thermometer in my mouth, anyways." Sherlock countered stubbornly.

"For God's sake," John grumbled and shoved the thermometer into Sherlock's mouth.

"John!" Sherlock's words came out slightly muffled as he tried to speak around the thermometer. He continued to speak in unintelligible words that included several swears until the thermometer began to beep.

"That wasn't so hard, now, was it?" John asked lightly, taking it out of Sherlock's mouth.

Sherlock grimaced and wiped at his mouth.

John looked down at the thermometer and his eyes widened. "Sherlock, you bastard!" He growled, tossing the thermometer on the nightstand. "If you weren't feeling well, tell me!"

"I feel fine. You're overreacting. As usual, I might add." Sherlock said, resting his head in a pillow.

John shook his head. "I'll be right back." He muttered, standing up.

Sherlock didn't reply.

•◊•

It was in the middle of the night did John wake up from the sitting room to hear terrible coughing from Sherlock's bedroom.

Rubbing his eyes, John staggered to a somewhat standing position. With a loud yawn, John managed to pour a glass of water from the kitchen. He opened Sherlock's door and mumbled sleepily, "Sherlock?"

The coughing ceased immediately and John managed to make out a faint outline of Sherlock's body on the bed. His chest was rising and falling ever so slightly, but John could still hear him panting in labored breaths.

"Get out," Sherlock groaned as John sat down at his bedside, placing the water cup on the night stand. He felt Sherlock feebly attempt to push him away with a weak hand. When John didn't move, Sherlock's hand fell limply over the side of the bed.

John blinked, trying to wake himself and then said, "I got you water. Can you sit up?"

"'Course I can sit up," Sherlock replied irritably. "I'm not a—" He broke off the rest of his sentence with a coughing fit and rolled over, stuffing his face into the pillow.

"_No_, Sherlock, you'll suffocate yourself." John said gently, turning him right side up.

Sherlock gripped John's shoulder and swallowed. John reached over to the night stand and carefully handed Sherlock the water cup.

"Small sips," John murmured soothingly as Sherlock took it gratefully. "Don't rush, or you'll choke."

For several long minutes, John waited for his friend to slowly finish the glass. Once he was finished, he placed the cup back on the night stand and Sherlock slowly relaxed back into bed.

"That was tedious." He muttered, his voice hoarse and lower than usual.

John sighed and said, "Don't talk. Your throat will hurt and then you won't be able to speak."

"I thought you wanted that?" Sherlock mumbled, a small spark of dry humor igniting in his voice.

John managed to crack a smile. "Well, _yeah,_ but it'd hurt, and I don't want to deal with you complaining like a child by throwing a silent tantrum."

"Mm…good point. Night, John." Sherlock's words slowly slurred together and within a couple minutes, the only sounds that were heard were the two men's breaths as they slept.


	2. Chapter 2

**Hello, everyone! Back with a new chapter! I was so happy when I got all of the positive feedback and the follows/faves...thank you! I guess we're all in one big boat for a need to see sick!Sherlock and doctor!John. XD **

**Anyways, this is the second chapter-these chapters probably won't be as long as my other chapters in other stories, but again, I'm still trying to get used to writing in John's POV. XD Actually, for some reason, I seem to feel more comfortable writing in John's POV, and I don't know why. Baha, maybe it's because Sherlock is too...SMART for me to write in? Maybe that's it. XD **

**Well, now my rambling's done. Please enjoy this chapter, and don't forget to review! Feedback is appreciated, just no flames/hate comments. Faves/follows are also awesome to give, too! :) 'Till next time! :)**

* * *

John thought he heard voices when he awoke. His eyes slowly opened and he blinked back in surprise at the sudden light. John rubbed them wearily and looked down at the bed.

Instead of seeing Sherlock, the bed was empty, the blankets tossed back and the pillows thrown to the floor out of…frustration?

John stood up violently, almost knocking back his chair. "Sherlock!" He growled indignantly, marching out of the bedroom. "Sherlock, back in bed right _now_!"

He stopped short when he reached the sitting room—Lestrade was staring at him, and sure enough, Sherlock was on the couch, tapping his fingers on the armrest.

"I suppose that sounded better in your head," Lestrade said awkwardly.

John felt his face heating up and, choosing to avoid answering, he glared at Sherlock and asked, "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"Work." Sherlock replied easily, his eyes meeting John's. "Mind getting my coat? I'll have to take a minute to change."

John sighed, shaking his head and turned to Lestrade. "Sherlock can't and won't work today," he said steadily. "Get someone else to help."

Lestrade frowned. "And why's that? Sherlock was pretty enthusiastic."

"Of course he is." John muttered, fighting the urge to strangle Sherlock. "He's sick."

"I am _not_." Sherlock grumbled, standing up abruptly. "I am perfectly healthy."

Lestrade looked back and forth the two men uneasily as they glared at each other. "Ah…" He murmured.

"You're _not_ going." John said loudly.

"Yes, I _am._ Now, if you excuse me, I'll have to wear some actual clothes." Sherlock replied, crossing his arms. He turned on his heel and John watched him furiously as he walked away.

As soon as the bedroom door was shut, John turned to look at Lestrade. "You are _not_ bringing him," he hissed.

Lestrade sighed. "John, I know you care about Sherlock, I do, too!" He said defensively as John shot him an angry glare. "But if he says that he's going, then he'll be going. You know that the bastard won't listen to whatever we say."

John rubbed his brow, frustrated. It was true—once Sherlock had his mind set on something, it was almost impossible to change it.

"How about this—I'll only bring Sherlock for a short time. After about an hour or so, I can tell him that I'll take over and you two can come back to the flat." Lestrade explained.

John sighed but before he could make any form of objection, the bedroom door opened and Sherlock strolled into the sitting room, tying his scarf around his neck. "I'm ready. John, what are you doing, just standing there?" Sherlock asked sharply.

Lestrade shot John a halfhearted smile and he shook his head. "I'll be back in a minute." He muttered. "Then we can go."

•◊•

"We think the drug dealer was here last night." Lestrade said matter-of-factly as the trio walked into a deserted factory. "Traces of his little presents are found here," he pointed. "And over there."

"D'you think he's still here?" John asked, peering inside the factory with a torch.

"Nah. We searched the entire place—no sign of him here." Lestrade replied.

"How can you tell? Electricity's out." Sherlock said, flicking on his own torch. "For all we know, he can be sitting above us on the beams of the ceiling."

At that statement, both John and Lestrade looked up uneasily at the ceiling. When they didn't see anything, they looked back to see Sherlock already heading inside the dim room.

John walked in after him, flashing the light of his torch all around the space. Dust filtered through the air from where the light hit it, and every once in a while, he had to wave his hand in front of his face to block out a rather unpleasant odor that smelled of stale urine and alcohol.

He cleared his throat and stopped next to Sherlock, who was standing in the corner of the room. He could hear Lestrade walking about them, looking up and down the walls. John cleared his throat and looked back at Sherlock.

"Well, isn't this typical." Sherlock murmured, crouching down in front of an air vent in the corner of the room. "Whoever this dealer is isn't that creative; what a disappointment."

"What do you mean?" John asked, crouching down.

"Crawled through the vent." Sherlock said, latching his fingers over the grate. "This means he's rather small and…ooh, never mind—he's gained some weight."

John blinked. "How can you tell? It might just be a small, skinny man."

"No—this man has been here before. See, the worn out spots in the metal? He's been here for a while, only if you look carefully at the walls, you can tell that they're almost _bulging_ out." Sherlock murmured, shining the torch through the chute.

John sighed and stood back up. "So…would he still be here?"

"Probably. Most likely. No sign of an exit." Sherlock said quietly, closing the grate. "But I think we can—" He suddenly stopped talking, his hands still clutched around the metal.

"Sherlock? You okay?" John asked worriedly.

Sherlock blinked rapidly and shook his head violently. "It was nothing." He mumbled, standing up, only to sink back down to his knees again.

"Sherlock!" John cried out, grabbing a hold of his shoulders before he would crash to the ground. He grunted under his friend's weight and struggled to stand him up.

"Greg!" He yelled, turning his head back. "Sherlock's—oof!" John finally sat down, bringing Sherlock down next to him.

"What happened?" Lestrade asked, his eyes wide as he crouched down next to the pair.

"He bloody passed out!" John grimaced and felt his hands along Sherlock's face. Sure enough, the skin was _much_ warmer than the previous night and John swore under his breath.

"Knew this would happen!" John muttered angrily. "Help me up with Sherlock—I'm taking him to the flat."

"Right." Lestrade nodded, taking one of Sherlock's limp arms.

John stood up and took Sherlock's other arm until both Lestrade and he were half-dragging, half-carrying the young man between them.

Sherlock's head lolled around his neck and his eyes did not open until John managed to stumble into the flat with him.

He staggered into Sherlock's bedroom and propped him up on the bed. John sighed and sat down next to him. He slowly began to undo Sherlock's coat and scarf. John tossed the coat over to the foot of the bed and carefully placed the scarf on the night stand.

He hesitated when he reached Sherlock's shirt. It felt incredibly awkward to undo his clothes in this manner, but at the same time, Sherlock was _sick_. If he didn't take of some of his clothes, then he'd burn up even faster. Besides, John would find a different shirt to force Sherlock to wear once that particular garment was taken off.

John didn't even undo the second button before Sherlock opened his eyes and mumbled, "You told me that you weren't gay."

John's hands froze and he looked up at Sherlock, who wore a small smirk on his lips.

"You bastard!" John muttered angrily. "You're burning up, for God's sake, and I'm not doing it in _that_—Sherlock!"

Sherlock closed his eyes briefly and reopened them sleepily. "Stop yelling." His words were slurred together. "And don't take off my shirt—it's cold in here."

"That's the fever messing with your head." John said flatly.

"Nothing messes with my head, John. I hope you realize that." Sherlock replied.

John rolled his eyes and began to undo Sherlock's shirt despite his protests.

"You're trying to kill me," Sherlock mumbled, closing his eyes. "You're going to kill me, aren't you?"

"Don't be a drama queen, Sherlock." John said, concentrating on one of the buttons. "Changing into a lighter shirt won't kill you."

Sherlock sighed and after several moments of silence, he asked, "Aren't you worried that people might talk?"

"Not necessarily, no." John replied. "You're sick, so…" He didn't bother finishing the sentence.

"Oh. Good." Sherlock said. "You're annoying when you worry."

John couldn't help but to smile. "Nice to know," he said and undid the last button. He tugged at Sherlock's sleeves and in one, fluid motion, the shirt slid off.

"Cold." Sherlock immediately wrapped his arms around himself. "John, it's _cold_."

"I know," John said, standing up. He walked over to the dresser and began to search through the drawers for a proper shirt for Sherlock to wear.

He managed to find a fairly large t-shirt tucked away in a corner of the drawer and strode back to Sherlock with it in hand.

"Lift your arms," John instructed.

"I know how to dress myself." Sherlock mumbled, rubbing his eyes defiantly.

"I _know_ that you know, but lately, you haven't been exactly truthful so I'm helping you, anyways." John said snappishly.

An audible sigh was heard from Sherlock but John didn't bother taking note of it. He lifted his arms and John slid the shirt over his head.

"This is unnecessary," Sherlock's voice was muffled as he fumbled to bring his arm through the sleeves.

"Shut up." John replied, standing up. "I'm going to get some medicine. Don't do anything stupid."

"When did I ever?" Sherlock mumbled, bringing his head down on a pillow.

John rolled his eyes—he had done a lot of eye rolling, he realized,—and walked out into the hall. He opened the bathroom door and flicked on the lights.

He searched through the medicine cabinet, hoping that he would find a fever reducing pill, only to coming to realize that his search was fruitless.

John sighed. Of course, the one time they needed medicine, there wasn't any. He walked back out to the hallway and poked his head in Sherlock's room.

"Sherlock, I'm going out. We ran out of medicine so just stay—" John stopped suddenly when he saw Sherlock, who was curled up on the bed, obviously fast asleep.

A small smile appeared on John's face and he quietly closed the door. He walked over to his armchair and picked up his jacket.

Hopefully, nothing would happen during the time John would be gone.


	3. Chapter 3

**Hello, everyone! School's cancelled today and yippee, Internet's back on! [Due to the snowfall last night, my Internet died. Pity, too, since I had actually finished the chapter last night and OF COURSE, I couldn't get onto this site. -_-] ****_Anyways, _****thank you for the support, it really means a bunch. :) As always, please review, give feedback, no hate comments are allowed. XD Follows/faves are also helpful! Thank you! :) **

* * *

John was walking down the aisle of the pharmacy when his phone began ringing.

Not bothering to look at the screen, John took his phone from his pocket and said, "Hello?"

"John, dear, it's Mrs. Hudson."

John shifted the phone in his hand and said, "Hello, Mrs. Hudson. Is something wrong?"

"Not _wrong_, really…Sherlock's just been quiet for some time. Is everything alright between the two of you?" Mrs. Hudson asked worriedly.

John turned around the aisle and replied, "No, nothing's wrong. Reason why Sherlock's so quiet is because he's sick. He's sleeping right now."

"That explains it." The relief was obvious in Mrs. Hudson's voice. "And where would you be?"

"Getting medicine. We ran out." John answered. "Make sure that Sherlock doesn't try to leave the flat or anything, will you? He's tried to go to work earlier today and I don't need him getting sicker than he already is."

"Of course, dear." Mrs. Hudson agreed.

"Thank you. I'll be at the flat in twenty." John said and with an exchange of farewells, he hung up and tucked his phone back into his pocket.

•◊•

John was feeling fairly optimistic when he stepped into the flat. He placed the small, plastic bag on top of the kitchen table and was about to take the pills out when he heard something.

Running water.

John's fingers fumbled and he dropped the bags. "Sherlock, what are you doing?" John called, walking towards the bathroom door. He jiggled the doorknob, only to find it locked.

"Sherlock?" John asked, pressing his ear to the door. "Sherlock, it's me. Can you open the door, please?"

When no response came, uneasiness steadily mounted in John's chest. "Sherlock!" John growled. "Open up!"

Only silence greeted him.

John stared at the door, running through whatever possible solutions might come to mind. He could find the key—the key to the bathroom.

Where was it?

John ran back into the kitchen and began digging through random drawers, hoping to find anything that would resemble a key to open the lock to the bathroom.

"Key…key…key…" John muttered under his breath, continuing to walk around the kitchen frantically. Why wasn't Sherlock answering the door?

"What's going on up here? I could hear you pacing from down in my bedroom!" Mrs. Hudson's voice reached John's ears as she opened the door.

John whirled around and gasped, "Do you know where the bathroom keys are?"

Mrs. Hudson blinked in surprise. "Yes—I keep the spare ones downstairs. Why?"

"I need them. Sherlock's in the bathroom and he's not answering." John said, pushing past her.

"He could just be taking a moment!" Mrs. Hudson said, following John down the stairs.

"If he was, he'd be answering!" John yelled angrily and when finally spotting the keys, he snatched them off the hook and was back to the bathroom within a couple moments.

John turned the key into the lock and swung the door open.

"Sherlock, what are you—" John felt his words die out in his throat when he spotted Sherlock's head in the sink—running water and all.

"Sherlock!" John cried out, immediately pulling Sherlock out of the basin. He sat down on the tiles of the floor and gently shook his friend. "Sherlock, can you hear me?"

As an answer, Sherlock violently sat up and vomited out all the water onto the ground.

John winced and pounded Sherlock's back as he gasped for breath. "_Jesus_, Sherlock what were you _thinking_?"

Sherlock swallowed and leaned back, his head resting against the wall. "Thought I ought to take a wash—I was feeling dirty after being stuck in bed all day." He mumbled, mopping at the water that caused his hair to stick to his forehead.

"Sherlock, you could've _drowned_." John muttered. "I can't even leave you alone in the flat for twenty minutes!"

"_Stop yelling_." Sherlock cringed, standing up unsteadily. He almost immediately toppled back down to the floor until John grabbed him by the shoulders and straightened him.

Without a word or agreement, Sherlock leaned against John's frame as he led him to his bedroom. Sherlock sank into his bed and John walked back out, only to return with a towel.

"Wrap that around your head while I grab the medicine," John instructed.

Sherlock nodded silently and John headed into the kitchen, where the abandoned bags were still thrown onto the ground.

John wrapped his fingers around the bottle and walked back to Sherlock's room.

Sherlock looked ridiculous with his head wrapped around with a towel, and under a less serious situation, John may have had the nerve to laugh out loud.

However, that was not the case.

"Swallow," John said, handing Sherlock a cup of water and a pill.

Sherlock followed obediently and handed the drained cup back to John.

"You're following orders decently for once." John finally noted when Sherlock had settled back into bed.

"Don't get used to it." Sherlock murmured, rubbing his eyes.

John managed to crack a halfhearted smile and drummed his fingers against the surface of the nightstand. "Tea?" He offered at last.

"No thank you."

John nodded absent-mindedly and then Sherlock added, "You're trying rather hard not to strangle me, aren't you?"

John blinked and looked down at Sherlock, who was peering at him with curious eyes.

"Hm…that's a good deduction, yeah." He said quietly.

Sherlock clasped his hands at his lap and for several moments, both men didn't speak. John puffed out a small breath and stood up, the chair scraping against the floor with a small, indignant cry.

He was at the doorframe when Sherlock finally said, "John."

"Yeah?" John turned around.

Sherlock opened his mouth, as though to say something, but then closed it, having obviously changed his mind.

"I think you might want to clean up the mess in the bathroom. It'll probably reek in the morning." Sherlock said at last.

John stared at Sherlock incredulously, wondering whether to yell at him or roll his eyes.

"Yeah. I'll get to that," John said decidedly and closed the door without saying anything else.

•◊•

John threw the wet towels into the bin halfheartedly before heading to his armchair.

"How's Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson asked, bustling around the kitchen. "It looked like he gave you quite a scare."

"He's fine." John grumbled, leaning forward to examine the newspapers. "He'll be back to normal in no time."

"Well, that's good to hear." Mrs. Hudson said sweetly, squeezing John's shoulder. "Give a shout if you need me, love."

John nodded with a strained smile and Mrs. Hudson walked down the stairs. Heaving a great sigh, John tilted his head back against the fabric of the armchair. He wasn't quite sure what to do at the moment—Sherlock was sleeping, he didn't feel like updating his blog, and he _definitely_ couldn't leave the house.

Well, then.

John picked up the remote control to the television and flicked it on.

•◊•

A loud crash from the kitchen brought John to his senses.

Startled, he sat up quickly, several swears following in quick succession. "What's going on?" He whirled around.

Sherlock was standing in the middle of the kitchen, staring down at the multiple graduated cylinders that were shattered on the ground.

John resisted the urge to groan and rubbed his temples. "Sherlock." He said quietly. "What were you doing?"

"I was bored. Decided to bring some equipment out and catch up on—" He flinched as a beaker toppled out of the opened cabinet. "Work." He finished.

John stared at Sherlock and shook his head. "What part of _resting_ do you not understand? For God's sake, step away from the mess." He tugged his friend away from the fallen equipment and practically pushed him down to the couch. "_I'm _going to clean up this mess you made."

"What am I supposed to do?" Sherlock asked.

"Nothing—don't do anything!" John replied over his shoulder. "Or just watch some telly—it's on, anyways."

Muttering under his breath, John began to gather cleaning supplies. He crouched down to the floor and slowly collected the glass shards together in a plastic bag. Honestly, Sherlock acted so _stupid_ and _childish_ sometimes.

John ducked under the kitchen table, sweeping together any other broken off fragments from the mess. He crouched a bit closer towards ground level and winced as pieces of glass dug into his fingers. Feeling somewhat self-conscious, John crawled around under the table until he was fairly sure that every last bit of glass had been removed.

He heard Sherlock coughing over the din of the television and quickly stood up, resulting in hitting his head against the table.

John cringed, rubbing his head and put the bag of glass shards on the counter before walking over to Sherlock. He planted a hand on Sherlock's back and frowned as he felt the shivers that caused the younger man's body to shake.

Sherlock's coughs slowly subsided and he swallowed, blinking what seemed to be tears in his eyes from the strain. "You can lift your hand now, John." Sherlock muttered through chattering teeth. "It looks rather silly of you just standing there like that."

John paused and then, clearing his throat, he withdrew his hand. He bent down and picked up the remote before shortly turning the telly off.

"Come on, back to bed for you." John said, straightening himself. "I'll get food or something."

"Not hungry." Sherlock replied shortly.

"You need to get some nutrients into your body. You don't eat enough as it is," John added.

Sherlock folded his arms across his chest and stared defiantly up at the ceiling. "I'm _not_ hungry. I _refuse._" He muttered.

"Stop being such a drama queen and get back into your bedroom." John replied.

Sherlock sighed and slowly stood up to his feet. "Don't bother me tonight, John." Sherlock said with a yawn.

John didn't bother replying as he watched Sherlock trudge towards his bedroom. With a quiet sigh, he drummed his fingers against the table. He might as well call some sort of takeaway place for something that Sherlock could eat—heaven knew that he couldn't cook.


	4. Chapter 4

**Sick Sherlock's been rubbing off on me-bottom line, I'm sick as well. XD *Sighs* Karma isn't very nice. Anyways, read on-the promptness of this A/N is just a quick intro to an additional note at the bottom, but don't bother reading this without reading the chapter first. XD**

* * *

Thirty minutes after takeaway came, John was _still_ trying to get Sherlock to eat. He had heated up the food two times already and was _not_ in the mood to heat it up again.

"Sherlock, this is absolutely ridiculous. Just have it, or I'll use force." John threatened.

"I'd like to see you try." Sherlock mumbled from under the blankets of the bed. John sighed and ripped the covers off of Sherlock, which resulted in him crying out in protest.

John grabbed Sherlock's arm and forced him into a sitting position. He quickly shoved the spoonful of soup into Sherlock's mouth and he sputtered, "That is _disgusting_."

"Being sick makes everything taste disgusting. _Eat_." John gave Sherlock a pointed glare as he refused the food once more.

Slowly, bit by bit, Sherlock managed to finish the entire bowl and he yanked the blankets over his head.

"Don't ever make me do that again." Sherlock groaned. "There's nothing more humiliating than that experience."

John simply rolled his eyes and reached for the covers, quickly yanking them back again.

"John, _stop it_!" Sherlock growled, struggling to reach for the blankets.

"You have to keep your fever down, Sherlock." John replied.

"But it's _cold_." Sherlock muttered, burying his head underneath his pillow.

"I know it is." John sighed, turning out the light. "But you'll feel better in the morning, trust me."

•◊•

Apparently, Sherlock did _not_ trust John when it came down to sickness.

Yawning, John stumbled into Sherlock's bedroom to check on him, only to find the blankets tossed right back over his body again.

"_Sherlock_!" John moaned and sat at Sherlock's bedside. He placed a hand on his forehead and immediately, chills ran up his spine. It was burning much hotter than the other nights and when John felt the fabric of the pillow that Sherlock was sleeping on, it was damp with sweat.

John swallowed and began to peel away the blankets from Sherlock—some of the sheets had actually stuck to his legs.

"John," Sherlock mumbled, his eyes opening slowly. "John, I can't…" He propped himself up on his elbows, staring up at the ceiling.

John sat down on the mattress, which was now stripped away of the blankets and comforters. "Sherlock, relax. I'm going to get you some more medicine." He said.

Sherlock wrapped his arms around himself until he was nothing but a curled up ball in the center of the mattress. John stood up and rushed out of the bedroom, returning quickly with the bottle of medicine and a cup of water in hand.

"Come on, Sherlock." John encouraged, sitting Sherlock up. He brought the cup of water to his dry lips and managed to get him to swallow down the pill.

John placed the supplies back on the night stand as Sherlock stared at him blankly.

"Get some rest." John said shortly, standing up.

"I can't." Sherlock whispered.

"Of course you can." John replied. "Just close your eyes and don't _think_."

"It's hard."

John sighed and sat back down beside Sherlock. "What do you want me to do, then? I can't do anything right if you keep sending me mixed signals."

He waited for Sherlock to say something—anything—but all he heard was a small mumble.

"What was that?" John asked, leaning forward.

Sherlock's mumbles repeated themselves—if anything, they sounded much more incoherent.

"Sherlock, I can't help you if you keep mumbling like that." John said tiredly.

"Can you stay?" Sherlock asked quietly.

John blinked, taken a back and straightened. "You want me to…stay?" He said slowly, wondering if he heard that right.

"Yes." Sherlock mumbled, closing his eyes. "Please?"

John suddenly felt a rush of affection towards Sherlock and he managed a small smile. "Of course I will, Sherlock."

"Thank you." He whispered.

"You're welcome." John replied, and, leaning back in his chair, he smiled down at the sleeping consulting detective.

•◊•

John flinched when Sherlock's arm shot out to grab his hand. "Sherlock…?" He asked questioningly, looking over at his friend.

Sherlock's eyes were wide open—looking terrified and confused at the same time, which was _definitely _unusual.

John shook Sherlock's shoulder slightly when he didn't respond. "Sherlock? You in there?" He asked quietly.

Sherlock blinked and with a sharp intake of breath, he let go of John.

"Sorry." Sherlock murmured, rubbing his eyes. "Had a strange dream, that's all."

"Want to share?" John asked lightly.

"Mm…not quite. I was a dragon, though." Sherlock said sleepily, his eyes already closing. "And…you were a small…dwarf looking thing…"

John blinked. He wasn't quite sure whether to take that as a compliment or not.

"Oh…anything happen?" John continued.

"Fire…lots of fire…" Sherlock shivered, his teeth gently biting down at his own lip. "And…screaming."

John stared at Sherlock. "Oh." He mumbled.

"I think I was the one who created the fire…John, am I going to set the flat on fire?" Sherlock asked quietly, his speech somewhat slurred together.

"What? No, of course not." John said with a halfhearted smile. "You're not _that_ crazy."

"Crazy…d'you think so?" Sherlock asked.

John paused and laughed. "Maybe a _bit_ crazy."

"Crazy enough to hurt you?" Sherlock's voice was suddenly sharp and John blinked. "Where'd _that_ happy thought come from?"

"I was just wondering." Sherlock said, his voice becoming smaller.

John paused and then placed his hand over Sherlock's.

Sherlock's eyes flickered open and stared at him with question.

John hesitantly squeezed it and gave him a smile. "Well, that was a stupid thing to wonder about." John said gently. "You wouldn't hurt me."

Sherlock smiled—it was a small smile, a small twitch of the lip, but it was enough to bring warmth that wasn't always seen in Sherlock Holmes.

He shifted in his bed and closed his eyes, obviously attempting to fall back to sleep but failed, his eyes opening again.

John looked at Sherlock curiously and asked, "Are you having trouble sleeping?"

"No," Sherlock mumbled.

John lifted an eyebrow and then Sherlock muttered, "Yes."

"Just don't think." John said. "That's probably the reason why you can't get any rest these days."

Sherlock frowned but didn't say anything. Instead, he kept his eyes fixed on John.

"What?" John asked. "Do you want something?"

"No, I don't want anything." Sherlock said quietly.

"Then why're you staring at me like that?"

No reply came.

Of course.

John took a deep breath and said, "Sherlock, it wouldn't kill for you to not tell me what you want."

Sherlock remained silent.

At last, John gave a small sigh and his eyes flickered down to the bed. He stared at the mattress, then back at Sherlock, who was failing at hiding his somewhat hopeful expression.

John rubbed his temples and closed his eyes. "Sherlock…" He murmured.

"Yes?"

"You will be the death of me." John grumbled and stood up. Sherlock shifted backwards and John slipped underneath the covers. For several moments, all he could do was hold his breath and try to control the rising awkwardness of the situation.

"You're tense." Sherlock mumbled into the darkness.

"Well, this isn't exactly something that happens every day, you know." John replied quietly.

"You don't have to do this if you don't want to."

John moved his head a fraction of an inch so he'd be looking at Sherlock. "Can't stand it—you were giving me that sad expression."

Sherlock managed a small smile and John shifted his eyes back to the ceiling. "Don't you dare breathe a word of this to anyone else," he murmured, closing his eyes.

"I wouldn't dream of it." Sherlock replied dryly.

John smiled and it wasn't long before the two began to drift off.

* * *

**A/N: Have you all read the chapter before actually reading this bit? Good! **

**I don't ship Johnlock-I will repeat myself millions of times just to get to the point-I don't really ship them romantically. I'm more into the friendship between them. No offense to the Johnlock romantic shippers, there, of course-I'm rather neutral about it in a general sense. **

**Thank you for the continuous support, and reviews/faves/follows are appreciated. :)**


	5. Chapter 5

**Hello, everyone! Took some more time to write this chapter, I'm afraid, because my schedule these days have just been utterly AWFUL. However, school will be cancelled tomorrow, (or later today...? It's 12:31 am here in the states, LOL.) So I took the advantage and began writing like frenzy. I'm also going to be going away on Friday through Sunday night because of this long road trip. *sighs sadly* Due to this event, I'll probably be busier-winter break is also crunch time for this school competition as well so I'm studying harder for that. **

**Bottom line-it's going to be harder and harder for me to update ANY of my stories, sadly, but I'll try to keep up with the writing as much as I can! I love it more than I like studying, which is saying a lot! XD **

**As always, please review, fave/follow if you enjoyed! Suggestions for the next chapter is welcome as well! :) I'm always open for new ways to torture our favorite consulting detective! **

* * *

When John woke up in the morning, he felt sore and bruised all over, no thanks to Sherlock Holmes.

He slowly sat up, resisting the urge to moan and rubbed his eyes wearily. He was about to slide away from the bed when he heard Sherlock mumbling, "G'morning."

"Good morning, Sherlock. Did you sleep well?" John asked.

Sherlock blinked his eyes sleepily and managed a small nod. "'m going back to sleep." He murmured, his eyes closing already.

"Hold on, Sherlock—let me take your temp first, at least." John said, already walking around the bed to reach for the thermometer on the night stand.

He picked it up and Sherlock turned on his side so he wouldn't be looking at John.

"Don't do this again, Sherlock. It's just for one minute." John sighed, wrestling Sherlock to get him to sit up.

Sherlock's arms flailed, trying to struggle out of John's grip. He kicked his legs weakly with several feeble protests until John gently pushed the thermometer into his mouth.

John drummed his fingers quietly against the surface of the night stand. He was looking at Sherlock closely for any sign of progress but once realizing that he was being inspected, Sherlock slowly turned the other way.

The thermometer beeped its signal and John pulled it out of Sherlock's mouth.

_One hundred two point three Fahrenheit. _

_One hundred two point three Fahrenheit. _

John's lips parted in shock and he turned to look at Sherlock, who was already beginning to drift away.

"Sherlock, your temp is one hundred two point three." He muttered, putting the thermometer down.

"'s nothing to worry about." Sherlock said lazily, barely moving his lips to speak.

"One hundred two point three!" John repeated.

"Again, 's nothing to worry about."

John put a hand over his mouth, fighting to control the urge to begin yelling at his friend—at his _stupid, oblivious friend._

He stood up quickly and began to make his way into the bathroom. He ran a small towel over water and returned with lips pressed tightly together.

John gently placed the towel over Sherlock's forehead, resulting in the younger man letting out a low moan of relief and surprise.

"You are such a _child_, sometimes." John muttered under his breath as Sherlock sank back into sleep. For several minutes, he watched beads of sweat and faucet water slip gently down Sherlock's forehead.

John sighed and walked quietly out of Sherlock's bedroom. He was in need for some relaxation, anyways.

•◊•

John was about to head up to bed when he decided—reluctantly, he might add to himself—that he needed to check on Sherlock one last time.

Taking a deep breath for whatever would greet him, John opened the door quietly and headed inside.

Sherlock was still asleep, his legs splayed across the mattress and his breathing deep and even. Every couple moments, it would hitch and the man would stiffen, but as another second passed, Sherlock's muscles would loosen and he'd return to his peaceful slumber.

John sat down at Sherlock's bedside, making note that nothing too severe or harmful had happened to Sherlock in the last couple hours or so.

He smiled in relief and quickly took up the towel that was perched on Sherlock's brow. He walked into the bathroom and soaked it with cool water, as he had been doing for every thirty minutes.

John sat back down in his chair and gently placed the towel on Sherlock's head. He paused, staring down at him for a minute and then frowned. John, careful not to wake him, propped Sherlock's head ever-so-slightly on the pillow.

Of course, John should have known that Sherlock would be awakened even at the _slightest_ movement. He never was one to sleep deeply, anyways.

"John?" Sherlock mumbled, his voice thick and tired.

"Yeah, it's me." John replied quietly. "You have to keep your head propped up—you're gonna wake up with a crick in your neck and the last thing we need is for you to be complaining for a sore neck on top of everything else."

A tight smile was formed on Sherlock's lips and he mumbled, "I was comfortable 'fore, John."

"I know you were, and it might seem that way to you, but just do as I say, will you?" John asked patiently. "You'll be thanking me."

"Debatable." Sherlock muttered under his breath but did as John told him all the same.

John shook his head, but a couple chuckles managed to escape from his lips.

Sherlock let out a tired sigh and he closed his eyes.

"'m tired now, John." He murmured.

"I know."

"Will you be staying again tonight?"

John blinked in surprise and looked up at Sherlock, whose eyes were still closed.

"Um…" John stared up at the ceiling, unsure how to reply. His eyes travelled back to Sherlock and he sighed. "Yeah, alright." He finally said. "But only for one more night—and you kick too much in your sleep, you know that?"

Sherlock inched back as John slid under the covers with him.

It hadn't even passed two minutes before Sherlock said out loud, "I'm sorry—this must be…awkward for you."

John's eyes opened and he turned to Sherlock worriedly. "You're _apologizing_? _Jesus_, what did that medicine do to you?"

Sherlock didn't laugh or smirk at this comment—instead, he just stared quietly.

"I've said it before—you don't have to do this if you really feel uncomfortable." Sherlock mumbled.

John felt a rush of affection towards Sherlock—the smartarse who was a bloody _genius_, a man with a childish attitude, _no manners_, and most of all, his _best friend_—was being considerate, or at least, showing consideration.

John managed a smile and he replied, "And as I've told _you_ before, I can't help it. You were looking sad again."

"People might talk."

"Only if you open your fat mouth."

"I never gossip."

"Good."

John sensed Sherlock smiling and then he murmured, "Good night, Sherlock."

"Good night, John."

•◊•

John woke up to feeling Sherlock thrashing on the bed at three in the morning—and frankly, it was not a great experience.

"Sherlock!" John cried out as Sherlock blindly grasped at whatever was closest to him, which happened to be his arm.

John struggled to sit Sherlock and himself up. It was still dark outside, but John could make a faint outline of Sherlock's trembling body next to him.

"You okay?" John asked quietly after listening to the uneven, shaky breaths for several minutes.

"Fine." Sherlock mumbled, his hand still gripping John's arm tightly.

John could still feel Sherlock quivering beside him, not to mention how clammy his skin felt.

"Go back to sleep." John murmured. "It'll be better in the morning."

Sherlock didn't move. His hands clenched themselves tighter around John's arm and he muttered, "I'm not going to sleep."

"You'll have to, Sherlock." John replied. "You'll just make yourself worse if you don't."

Sherlock paused and upon realizing that his hands were still squeezing John's arm, he quickly removed them and buried his head into a pillow.

John stared at Sherlock for several minutes, puzzled, until he was sure that the consulting detective had fallen asleep.

He sighed and gently turned Sherlock over so he'd be on his back.

He didn't want the idiot to suffocate himself, after all.


	6. Chapter 6

**Oh, look at that! I updated! Thanks for the support, everyone-it means a ton, especially since I haven't exactly updated in a while. *smiles sheepishly* **

**I'm definitely not proud of this chapter-it feels like one of those chapters where relatively nothing happens and it's just _here_ to tell readers that this story isn't on hiatus. *winces* I'll admit it-my need for torturing Sherlock has lessened just a bit, but I swear I will finish this story. :) **

**Just a heads up-I also put in some time lapse in this chapter so I suppose this chapter would take place a day or two after the last chapter. :/**

**Enjoy! **

* * *

John was able to get a head start on the day with a cup of tea, which he was most grateful for. The past few days were rather exhausting. He sat down on his armchair and rubbed his brow, trying to get used to his bearings at this time in the morning.

"Awake?"

John turned around quickly, almost sending the cup flying from the armrest of the chair.

"_Sherlock_, I thought you were supposed to be in _bed_!" John scolded, standing up.

"I feel much better." Sherlock said, shuffling into the kitchen. "You don't have to flock around me anymore."

John blinked. "'Flock around you'? Just yesterday, you were—" He closed his mouth suddenly with a shake of his head.

"Yesterday I was what?" Sherlock asked without looking back.

"Never mind." John muttered. It was best not to bring it up, anyways. Who knows, Sherlock might have somehow 'deleted' it from his memory, anyways.

"You need to go grocery shopping." Was Sherlock's only reply.

John sighed and walked into the kitchen, depositing his cup into the sink. "Right—you stay here. Just because you feel well enough to move around doesn't quite mean that you can go help Lestrade with another case." He said.

"Why? I'm perfectly capable." Sherlock complained.

"You can't and you will _not_, because I said so. Doctor's orders." John shot back. He walked out of the kitchen and grabbed his jacket. "Besides, I'll only be out for a couple of minutes. You won't even notice that I'm gone."

Sherlock opened his mouth to give some sort of retort but John held up a finger. "Mrs. Hudson is downstairs and you can call Molly if you really need help. She's the only one who can put up with you, anyways." He couldn't help but to add.

Sherlock's nose wrinkled. "Why on earth would I call either of them? I don't need any help." As if to prove his point, he trudged over to the couch and plopped down, immediately taking a sulking position.

John couldn't help but to roll his eyes as he tugged on his shoes. _What a child._

"Don't do anything stupid." He said. "Please, I don't want to find you drowning yourself or blowing something up or seeing that you've made run off somewhere."

With that, John walked out of the flat and headed out.

•◊•

The trip in the grocery store was much longer than John anticipated. For one, he couldn't _quite_ reach the top of the dairy aisle—_damn_—and he couldn't decide which jam to buy, either.

Not to mention he had yet _another_ difficulty of the pinning machine…but he was somehow able to work it after several futile attempts with much staring from other customers and more than a couple of swears uttered under his breath.

John considered texting Sherlock that he was taking a bit more time than originally planned, but quickly shooed away that idea. For all he knew, Sherlock had gone back to bed and was fast asleep.

And besides, if something wrong _did_ happen, Mrs. Hudson would have called by now.

Once settling into a cab, John pulled out his phone if anyone _did_ bother to message him.

_Is Sherlock alright? He's usually at the morgue but he hasn't been here in some time now. –MH_

John lifted an eyebrow at Molly's text message. It was usual for her to ask something like that. He had a small suspicion _that_ Molly Hooper may _fancy_ Sherlock. John grinned. He wouldn't be very surprised if Molly really _did_ have a crush on Sherlock—the only worry he _did_ have was if Sherlock might not feel the same way about _her_.

_He's sick. He's a bit better, but I'm not letting him leave the flat. –JW_

Molly's response came almost immediately.

_He is? That's unusual. Did you try lime juice? That usually helps. –MH_

John blinked, confused.

_Lime juice?—JW_

_Yes. It usually helps. Just a warning—it tastes absolutely horrible.—MH_

John sighed. Horrible? He could already feel the headache coming on.

_I'm not really sure Sherlock will be up for that.—JW_

_That's alright. It was just a suggestion. Say hello to him for me. : )—MH_

_I will. Take care.—JW_

"Mister? We're here." The cabbie called to John from the front seat.

John looked up and asked, "Actually, can you turn back around the way we came from?"

•◊•

After buying the designated extra items on the shopping list, John was back on Baker Street. He pushed open the door to 221B with a small grunt.

"Sherlock?" He yelled, walking up the steps. "I'm back!"

•◊•

"_What is that stuff?" _Sherlock sounded disgusted as John wordlessly held out a cup to him. "Smells _awful_."

"Actually, most people like the smell of lime juice." John replied with a shrug. "Then again, you're not exactly most people."

"Lime juice—'course. You didn't make it yourself, did you?" Sherlock muttered, glaring down at it.

"No." John replied. "You might want to take it now—who knows what you'll be like later."

Sherlock stared with obvious contempt at the slightly _lumpy_ looking liquid and protested, "You said it yourself, John. I've improved some."

"After being in bed for _two days_." John rolled his eyes. "So come on, drink up."

Sherlock groaned, obviously indignant with the task at hand but reluctantly took the cup. He wrinkled his nose and quickly drank the entire cup in one swig, only to shortly cough the stuff back up onto his blankets.

"_Sherlock!_" John winced and gingerly removed the blankets from Sherlock's legs.

"_That_ was disgusting." Sherlock gasped, wiping at his mouth slowly. "How do people _drink_ it?"

"Some are mature enough to," John muttered under his breath.

"What was that?" Sherlock looked up.

"Nothing." John replied.

•◊•

"Comfortable?" John asked once Sherlock had placed his head on the pillow.

Sherlock gave a small nod in reply, closing his eyes.

"I'll be upstairs if you need me." John said quietly. "Think you can handle yourself?"

"John, I'm much better. You don't need to mother over me." Was the indignant reply.

John simply rolled his eyes and walked out the door. He spent the next several hours flipping through the channels on the telly and once realizing that he was tired, he tucked himself into bed.

Perhaps it would be a peaceful night, for once.

•◊•

Peaceful night it was for John Watson, and morning greeted him quietly.

John opened his eyes and sat up in bed. He rubbed his eyes and looked around.

"Sherlock?" He called after pausing. It was much too quiet for him.

He kicked off the blankets and walked out of his room. "Sherlock?"

John walked down the stairs. He rushed to Sherlock's bedroom and opened the door. John's eyes surveyed the room and when they landed on the bed, he let out a groan.

The room was empty.

"Damn it, Sherlock!" John shouted furiously.

* * *

**A/N: Ooh, looks like Sherlock decided to sneak out of the flat...who knows what he's up to? XD **

**Please review/fave/follow/give feedback if you enjoyed or have any idea in particular. Haters will not be tolerated! **


	7. Chapter 7

**I somehow got inspiration to write this chapter! WARNING-VERY, VERY, VERY SHORT. I'm so sorry about that and I know that it's all about the quality, not the quantity of the writing, but it's just been a pet peeve of mine. However, I will post one more chapter and I'll be finished with this story. Has there ever been an 8-chapter sick!fic? Has someone been able to deal with sick!Sherlock for this long? *blows out an exasperated breath***

* * *

"Mrs. Hudson? Do you know where Sherlock is?" John asked the rather surprised looking landlady.

"No, dear—I thought he was in bed." Mrs. Hudson replied, her eyebrows furrowing together.

John shook his head and rubbed his temples. Of course.

"Sherlock, you'll be the _death_ of me," he muttered indignantly to himself and without another word, bolted out the door of the building.

•◊•

"John!" Molly Hooper smiled cheerfully as John walked through the doors of the laboratory. "I didn't think you'd come here! How are you?"

The doctor gave Molly a strained smile and clasped his hands behind his back. "I'm fine, Molly—I was just wondering if you've seen Sherlock recently."

Molly's smile faded a bit and she was suddenly interested in putting on her gloves. "No, I haven't. I thought he was with you," she said quietly.

_What a horrible liar,_ John couldn't help thinking. He was grateful, though.

"He decided to walk out." John replied, keeping his tone light. "I couldn't find him anywhere else. This was my next best shot."

Molly smiled weakly. "Oh? Well, I haven't seen him." She said, forcing a small laugh. John watched as she discreetly, (or _somewhat_ discreetly,) shoved her foot underneath her desk. A small movement caught his eye.

Who would have thought that the consulting detective was bad at hide-and-seek?

John closed his eyes and murmured, "He's underneath the desk, isn't he?"

When no response came, John ducked his head under the table and said calmly, "I know you're sitting there, Sherlock."

"So?" Was the sullen reply.

John rolled his eyes. "Come on, let's go home."

"I don't know why you insist and dragging me back to the flat. I'm perfectly fine on my own." Sherlock shot back, crossing his arms.

John had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep himself from laughing. He couldn't help it—though Sherlock could be a total _dick head_, there were moments like these when he just looked too much like a pouty child.

Scratch that—Sherlock really _was_ just a pouty child.

"Are you so sure about that, Sherlock?" John asked his friend seriously. "Just the other day, you were trying to drown yourself in the sink—"

"_Trying_ to? What are you talking about? Do you think I would just wake up saying, 'Hmm, let me go dunk my head into the sink to bother John,'?" Sherlock snapped, still not moving from underneath the desk.

John groaned. Impossible.

"Molly, help?" He pleaded.

Molly hesitantly came down to her knees. "Sherlock, maybe John's right," she said gently. "Just one more day of rest couldn't hurt."

"But I've slept for _hours_," Sherlock complained. "And I'm feeling better—no fever!" He outstretched his hands.

Molly bit her lip, looking back and forth between John and Sherlock. "Well, your fever _has_ gone down, I guess…or at least, it's normal…"

"Whose side are you _on_?" John asked, exasperated.

Molly simply gave the doctor a halfhearted smile in return.

* * *

**A/N: Admit it-we'd all act like Molly at one point...taking Sherlock's side because he's just awesome, and then taking John's side because he's also awesome. Ha. XD **

**Reviews and feedback would be GREAT-they keep me going! Flames will not be tolerated. **


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